


firsts

by buckgaybarnes



Category: Pacific Rim (Movies)
Genre: First Dates, Getting Together, M/M, Making Out, Miscommunication, Self-Esteem Issues, mild sexy stuff, newt 'whoever will take him' geiszler
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-29
Updated: 2019-05-29
Packaged: 2020-03-26 18:14:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,097
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19011190
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/buckgaybarnes/pseuds/buckgaybarnes
Summary: “You wanna take me on a date?” Newton says.He says it in the way one might react to hearing extraordinarily distressing news, or being told they must undergo an arduous task they’d prefer not to. Your pet fish died. I need you to clean up your half of the laboratory by eight. I was wondering if you’d like to join me for a nice dinner this weekend.The response Hermann’d been hoping for was something a little more enthusiastic.





	firsts

**Author's Note:**

> a request for someone over on tumblr, who wanted: 
> 
> "I was thinking Newt has a long history of people wanting to be with him because of his looks but they never stick around long because of, like, everything else about him so he's really worried once he and Hermann decide to date. So many people look at him and just think he is so adorable and innocent and vulnerable and are drawn in. And then he opens his mouth and wow that was not what they signed up for."
> 
> had a bit of trouble writing this for some reason but hopefully it turned out...good haha

“You wanna take me on a _date_?” Newton says.

He says it in the way one might react to hearing extraordinarily distressing news, or being told they must undergo an arduous task they’d prefer not to. Your pet fish died. I need you to clean up your half of the laboratory by eight. I was wondering if you’d like to join me for a nice dinner this weekend.

The response Hermann’d been hoping for was something a little more _enthusiastic_. He knows that Newton likes him, at least more than in a casual way a scientist may care for his research partner, or a man may for his rival who’s really more of a friend: he’s seen Newton’s eyes linger over him (not as subtle as Newton thinks), and Newton smile at him when he’s facing away (also not as subtle as Newton thinks), and that’s not even considering their long, _long_ history of sharing rather embarrassingly candid letters (most of which, towards the latter half of their correspondence, came to be signed off with _love_ ). But here Newton is, mouth curling into a frown, eyes cast to the floor, snapping the wrist of one rubber glove against his skin incessantly, repeatedly. Snap. Snap.

Hermann deflates. Perhaps he was wrong about Newton after all. “I’m sorry,” he says. “Is that not—something you’d want?”

“...No,” Newton says. “I mean—well, yes. It _is_ something I want.” Hermann perks back up. “Only—”

“Yes?” Hermann says.

Newton scuffs one dirty boot on the lab floor. “Are you sure about it?”

Hermann laughs, but it quickly becomes apparent Newton is not joking. He sobers up just as quickly. “Of course I’m sure,” he says, and gives Newton a small, reassuring smile. “I want to take you on a date, Newton. Nothing would bring me greater pleasure.”

“This weekend,” Newton says.

Hermann nods. He flexes his fingers, nervously, around his cane; Newton’s own fingers snap his rubber glove once more. For the life of him, he can’t imagine why Newton’s being so bloody _cagey_ about it all. Either he wants dinner or he doesn’t. “I’ve been researching restaurants in the area,” Hermann offers. Restaurants that’ll cater to their combined eating habits, and—perhaps just as important—their combined budget, which as of late is _minimal_. “I think I’ve found somewhere you might like.”

“Oh.” Newton’s eyebrows jump. “You looked into shit?” He stops snapping his glove. His hands fall to his sides.

“Obviously,” Hermann says. He’s not going to bumble in, blindly, to a date with Newton Geiszler _._ “I can make reservations, as well. If you’d like it. I’ll cover the bill of course.”

Hermann has already made reservations. He’d been banking, fairly hard, on the presupposition that Newton would accept the dinner proposal.

Newton nods. “That’d be fine,” he says. “Okay. This weekend?”

“Saturday,” Hermann says. “At...six?”

“Yeah,” Newton says. “Yeah, okay. Sure. Saturday at six.” He gives Hermann a weak smile. It’s moderately more encouraging than his previous frowning and fidgeting. “It’s a date.”

“It is,” Hermann agrees.

 

* * *

 

Hermann doesn’t feel nearly as elated as he expected about it all. Newton’s strange reticence has thrown him for quite the loop, and he spends the next few days continuing to second-guess it all—perhaps he’d imagined the lingering stares, perhaps the quiet smiles were not meant for Hermann at all, the _love, Newt_ s purely platonic in nature—and fret over how he has, obviously, misread every possible signal. By the time Saturday comes, he’s managed to convince himself that Newton agreed to the date solely out of pity and is going to point-blank reject him over dessert, and, as a result, spends his morning shower with his forehead pressed to the wall contemplating calling it all off. It’s not until the water goes cold that he realizes he’s yet to even shampoo his hair.

But—fears eventually pushed aside—Hermann’s dressed his best and knocking on Newton’s door at their designated meet-up time at half-past five, and Newton answers on the third knock. He, on the contrary, is _not_ dressed his best, though there’s a certain amount of effort put into his dishevelment that Hermann finds he likes. He’s swapped out corduroys for torn (and tight) skinny jeans, the button-up he’d been wearing earlier at work for a t-shirt adorned with some faded band logo, slicked back his hair with a ridiculous amount of gel. He’s leaning against the doorframe. Deceptively casual—there’s no small amount of self-consciousness radiating from him, palpable even to Hermann. He runs his fingers through his hair twice before nodding at Hermann. “Hey,” he says.

Hermann wonders if a kiss in greeting is too presumptive. He shoves a bouquet of flowers at Newton instead. (Fairly hard to track down flowers: there aren’t exactly a great many florists still up and running these days.) “For you,” he says.

Newton’s elbow slips from the wall, but he catches himself on the door handle. “For me?” he echoes. “Oh, shit. Thanks. Uh—” He takes them with an awkward smile.

“You look very handsome,” Hermann offers, because it is, after all, the truth. Stunningly, breathtakingly, devastatingly handsome. It’s nothing new—Hermann’s seen Newton covered in grime and coffee and electric blue viscera and had the exact same response. He’s dreadfully stuck on the man. (Though his shirt tonight clings to him _very_ well, almost as well as the jeans.)

For the second time that week, Newton does something which startles Hermann. His face falls. His eyes dart down. His shoulders slump. “Thanks,” he says.

While Hermann, also for the second time that week, wonders what he did wrong, Newton deposits the flowers inside and takes Hermann's arm.

 

Dinner is subdued, which is not at all what Hermann expected. Newton and Hermann's shared meals in the dining hall are never subdued—they argue, they bicker, they fling theories at each other, they steal each other’s food, they make general nuisances of themselves until someone finally storms over and asks them with forced politeness if they _please_ wouldn’t mind quieting down. But Newton does not mock Hermann’s choice of blazer, nor does he reach across the table to snatch up bits of seafood from his plate, nor does he even attempt to strike up a friendly debate over the latest report Hermann submitted.

He picks at his noodles and stirs the straw around in his glass of water and drums his fingers, absentmindedly, on the tabletop, and says absolutely nothing aside from brief answers to whatever questions Hermann throws at him. Does he like the place? A small nod. The food? A shrug, at this, which turns into another more hesitant nod. How was his day?

“Fine,” Newton says. He spears a piece of tofu with the end of one chopstick, brings it close to his face to examine it, then scrapes it off back on the side of the plate. “I can’t really do anything until I get new samples.” He stabs another piece of tofu and repeats the action.

Hermann wants to reach across the table and shake him, violently, by the shoulders to knock some bloody sense into him—enough for him to tell Hermann what Hermann could’ve possibly _done._ Hermann grits his teeth and downs the rest of his wine instead. “Would you like dessert?” he says, and offers him the menu. This, he’s sure, will get Newton’s attention. Hermann doesn’t think he’s seen the man turn down dessert in his life.

But Newton does not perk up and start rifling through it. He shrugs again. “Alright,” he says.

Hermann sighs. He orders himself more wine.

 

Frankly, the date goes terribly.

Hermann walks Newton home anyway, because it seems like the gentlemanly thing to do, even if he’s crushed beyond all reasonable measure about the whole thing and more than a little embarrassed. He’s not expecting a kiss—though he wouldn’t mind it—and certainly not expecting an invitation inside—though he wouldn’t mind that, either.

To his _wild_ surprise, Newton gives him both.

The kiss is fierce, and mind-numbing, and makes Hermann’s whole body fizzle with _excitement_. And confusion. It doesn’t seem remotely earned. But Newton grabs at his hair, and tugs at his buttons, and sucks on his tongue, and when he parts it’s with a downwards roll of his hips against Hermann’s that almost makes Hermann stagger back and crumple to the floor in a fit. “Oh,” Hermann gasps.

Newton has a death grip on his lapels. “C’mon,” he murmurs, and backs Hermann up against the metal wall opposite his door—open, offering Hermann an inviting glimpse into his quarters, of the pinkish glow of his lava lamp, the bouquet he tossed next to that, the green of his soft bedspread, the worn sweatshirt hanging over his desk chair. It all looks so warm. A sharp contrast to the wall Hermann feels the chill of through his blazer. He can feel how hot Newton is, too, how warm the breath that ghosts across his face is. “Come inside. It’ll be fun.”

“Oh,” Hermann repeats, because he’s not quite sure what else to say. “Er. Newton. Isn’t it a bit—well, isn’t this moving _fast_?”

“Nope,” Newton says.

“We’ve only had the one date,” Hermann tries weakly. “And it wasn’t—”

Newton kisses him again, biting at his tongue instead of sucking, and Hermann drops his cane this time. “ _Newton_ ,” he tries to squeak out.

Newton’s grin is too sharp when he pulls back; he stoops low to pick up Hermann’s cane and kneels in a way that’s unmistakably suggestive, Hermann’s Oxfords bracketing either side of his knees, Newton peering upward through his dark eyelashes. “Come inside,” he says, and offers up the cane.

Hand shaking a little, Hermann takes it. Newton curls his fingers around his.

 

Newton’s bed is comfortable, and he makes sure Hermann is equally comfortable—overstuffed pillows to prop him up, a blanket that Hermann casts aside almost immediately—before he stretches out next to him. His shirt pulls up from his stomach, giving a flash of inked, soft skin that makes Hermann’s mouth go dry. “Newton,” Hermann begins. “Ah. You really don’t—”

Newton begins to shuck off his t-shirt, flashing even more of that lovely, soft-looking skin to Hermann. “It’s a thank you,” he says. “For the awesome date.”

Hermann had been distracted by thoughts of what, exactly, it’d be like to touch that soft skin, but now his brow furrows at the obvious lie. Newton’s t-shirt hits the floor and strikes Hermann further speechless before he can question him, though, and he kicks off his dirty boots next. His socks don’t match: one is a bright purple, dotted with small green lizards, the other pink with a cat face. It’s strangely endearing, as all aspects of Newton usually are. “It’ll be fun,” Newton repeats.

He reaches for Hermann’s blazer, his lips going to Hermann’s neck (stubble rubbing pleasantly at Hermann’s skin) but Hermann jerks away fast. Faster than he intended. This whole thing is going rather fast, isn’t it?

Newton stares at him. Hermann stares back.

“Newton,” he says. “Er.”

“What’s wrong?” Newton says, immediately retracting his hand and appearing to almost shrink in on himself.

Hermann pushes himself up on his elbows, determined to avoid the guilt rising within him. He’s not sure why he feels guilty. Logically, he has nothing to feel guilty _about_. Something about Newton just seems off, is all, the seduction too much too soon, too undeserved. And it's not unlike Newton to jump head-on into things without a second thought, but it's them, so it seems infinitely more important. “Can’t we just—talk?” he says.

“You wanna _talk_?” Newton says. “Not—” He gestures to himself—his bare chest, the mismatched socks, the hint of bright green boxers that peek out over the waistband of his unfastened skinny jeans, the bit of pudge that hangs out over that. His lower lip wobbles almost imperceptibly. He looks nervous.

“I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t sorely tempted,” Hermann says, because he is, in fact, very, _very_ tempted (Newton, routinely, tempts him, often unknowingly, from the way his strong fingers grasp his work tools to the way his throat works as he laughs), “but—not tonight, I don’t think.” He reaches out and pats Newton’s hand. “I’m sorry to disappoint you.”

“No!” Newton says, yanking his hand away and scrambling to do his jeans back up. It takes him a few tries. “No, that’s—that’s fine. It’s perfect. Shit. I’m sorry. This is—” Newton flushes, and casts his eyes down to the bedspread. “Usually, we go right to this.”

“Who does?” Hermann says.

“My dates,” Newton says. “ _When_ I have dates. No one really wants to talk to me, you know? Well. I mean—” He's babbling. “Technically, sometimes, yes, but the ones who do always regret it.” His smile is forced. “I don’t go on a lot of second dates.”

Hermann’s _guilt_ and _unease_ are replaced, instead, with a deep surge of pity for his friend. “Oh, Newton,” he murmurs.

Hermann’s aware, at least a little, that Newton is not very successful when it comes to romantic endeavors. Newton’s _never_ been very successful when it comes to romantic endeavors. His string of partners has been small and short-lived, none of which stick around for more than a week or so—leaving Hermann seething with jealousy nonetheless—and most of which Hermann has run into, at one point or another, sneaking out of Newton’s quarters in the early hours of the morning after a date before Newton has even awoken. He’s aware of it, but it upsets him in a way he hadn’t anticipated anyway. He intends to pat Newton’s hand once more, a small gesture of comfort or even commiseration (men don’t exactly flock to Hermann, after all), but Newton—obviously embarrassed—recoils back even further. There’s another uncomfortable pause; Hermann rubs at the back of his neck, equally embarrassed, and Newton continues.

“I mean, it’s my own fault,” he says. “I ruin it every time. It’s easier to just shut up, and—”

Hermann sits straight up. “Newton,” he snaps, and Newton shuts his mouth. “I invited you out for dinner _for dinner_ , not because I expected anything in return from you.” He works his jaw, gritting his teeth a little. It’s difficult for him to express emotions even in ideal circumstances. “I’m...fond of you,” he admits, “and I was hoping for conversation tonight that extended beyond our usual—conversations.”

_Conversations_ may not be the best word. Their usual animosity, perhaps. Their obsession with work that bleeds over into every inch of their personal lives. Hermann wanted to talk to Newton in the casual way one should, hypothetically, be able to talk to the man they’re helplessly infatuated with over an overpriced dinner. A proper date. Or back in the way they used to talk, maybe, when they still wrote each other letters.

“Oh,” Newton says. His expression is the strangest mixture of mollification and mortification; a moment later, he flops onto his stomach and presses his face against his pillow. He lets out a deep groan. It’s all rather pitiful. “Shit, dude. I’m sorry.”

The alarm clock on Newton’s bedside—shaped like a small dinosaur, also horrendously endearing—reads quarter to ten. The mess hall does not close until midnight. They’ve still time to salvage the evening.

Hermann carefully picks up Newton’s discarded t-shirt from the floor and prods at Newton’s back. “Please get up,” he says.

Newton sniffles. “Are you going to kick me out?”

“This is _your room_.”

Newton rolls onto his back and blinks unsteadily at Hermann. His glasses are lopsided. “Right,” he says. “I forgot.”

“Get up,” Hermann repeats, and prods Newton’s shoulder this time, ignoring his equally pitiful squeak. “And get dressed, if you will. We’re going back out.”

“We are?” Newton says. He frowns, but takes the t-shirt.

 

The mess hall is completely deserted when they get there, which is what Hermann expected—hardly anyone comes here this time of night. He forgoes their usual bench crammed in the very back of the hall in favor of one closer to the center, and further forgoes taking a seat next to Newton in favor of one across from him. Newton’s confusion is palpable. They usually always sit next to each other: it’s easier for Newton to hiss complaints about passerbys in Hermann’s ear this way, easier to steal food from each other’s plates. Newton’s always the one to get them both trays of food, too, while Hermann waits at the table, but tonight Hermann insists on handling it. It takes a fair bit of juggling and balancing both on his free arm, but he manages.

“So,” Newton says, as Hermann slides him his food with a small clatter. “Uh. What’s...this?”

“Cake, I think,” Hermann says mildly. “There are other flavors if you’d rather.”

“Not the dessert,” Newton says. “Why are we here?”

“I’m taking you out to dinner,” Hermann says. He gestures between their trays. “I thought it was obvious.” He eases himself into his seat and rests his cane on the empty stretch of bench next to him, then places a napkin over his lap. The atmosphere is not exactly romantic, between the distant clanging of the techs at work in the jaeger bay, the stark fluorescence of the overhead lights, and the general build-up of grime on the floor and tabletop—they’d do well with some candles, perhaps, even background music—but Newton is there, and Newton is handsome, so it’ll do. “How was your day, Newton?”

Newton narrows his eyes. “It was...okay, I guess.”

Hermann clears his throat. “Only okay?”

Newton twirls his fork around in his fingers. After a few seconds, he begins again. “It kind of sucked, actually,” he admits. “I was _really_ nervous about this all week, and I was up all night worrying about stupid shit, and then I cut my hand at work—well, you know that already, I guess—”

Round two of their date goes remarkably smoother. Compared to how reserved he’d been earlier, now, between his babbling about anything that comes to mind and how he’s _actually_ making eye contact with Hermann, Newton’s practically a different person. Hermann doesn’t think he pauses for breath once, at least not until he leaves to refill their water glasses and comes back to a Newton who is mildly pink-faced and picking at his piece of half-stale bread. “I’m not being annoying, am I?” Newton says.

Hermann shakes his head. “Not at all.” He swallows down some more noodles, which are decent, though fairly cold from sitting around in a tray all night. He doesn’t need them—he’s still satisfied from their first attempt at this.

Newton methodically picks each bit of crust off the bread. He tears the piece into halves. Then into fourths. He’s avoiding eye contact again. (Hermann is reminded of how he’d snapped his gloves in the lab.) “Hey,” he says. “Uh. Why’d you ask me out, anyway? And I don’t just mean the talking thing.”

Hermann pushes the food around his plate with chopsticks. More than fairly cold, but it’s Newton’s favorite (or, at least, Newton’s favorite within the confines of the Shatterdome kitchen), and he’d gotten it in the hopes of Newton picking some off as he would on a normal night. He hasn’t, so far. “Do I need a reason?” he says.

“I kinda want to know,” Newton says.

Hermann’s not certain if he wants to play all his cards just yet: Newton watches him from afar in the lab, Newton accepted his proposal for dinner, and Newton kissed him and took him to his quarters and was mere seconds away from doing things that Hermann’s only considered in the pitch black of his bunk where Newton is far, far out of sight, but he’s given Hermann no indication his feelings remotely reflect the depth of Hermann’s own. “I said I was fond of you,” Hermann says slowly. “I admit that was a bit of an understatement.”

Newton watches him expectantly. Hermann clears his throat.

“Frankly, Newton,” he says, and it’s difficult, far more difficult than he expected to put into words exactly what sort of strange sentiments Newton Geiszler sparks in him, because there are _many_ , each one contradicting the last, and he’s lived with them for so long it’s like explaining to someone how to breathe or eat, “you’re infuriating, and loud, and _incredibly_ obnoxious—”

“Uh,” Newton says.

“—and often I fantasize about shoving those damned kaiju entrails down your—”

“ _Okay_!” Newton says.

“Ah,” Hermann says, remembering he’s meant to be complimenting Newton (and on any other night he would highly doubt the man’s ego needs it). “You’re also brilliant. And attractive. And you can be kind.” He adds, hurriedly, “ _Occasionally_ kind. Very occasionally.”

What else does Hermann like about Newton? Newton is careless and reckless (everything Hermann isn’t). Newton is passionate. And Newton touches Hermann. Newton smiles at Hermann, and Newton makes Hermann smile in return. Newton has seen Hermann at his very worst, his very lowest, red-eyed and exhausted and shouting, and has stuck around nevertheless. Hermann doesn't even mind the loudness, really. “Over all,” Hermann says, “you’re—appealing to me.”

“ _Appealing_ ,” Newton echoes. He leans forward, a grin (curiously shy) spreading across his face. Evidently what Hermann said has pleased him—evidently he’s understood what Hermann had been _unable_ to say. “You know, dude, I think that’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.” Under the table, his ankle knocks against Hermann’s. “I think you’re appealing too.”

 

Hermann walks Newton back to his quarters again. Newton does not push him against the wall this time, nor does he try to undress him, nor does he flash him that curiously sharp smile that made Hermann so strangely uneasy before. He _does_ take the lapels of Hermann’s blazer into his hands, but only to hold him in place as he curls up onto the tips of his dirty boots and places a very soft kiss on his cheek. It makes Hermann grow hot in the face. He’s blushing; how embarrassing. “Thank you, Newton,” he says.

Newton shrugs. He fiddles with Hermann’s lapels. “I’m sorry I was being weird,” he says. “I’m used to being asked out for...uh, physical reasons, and I was worried you—I know it’s dumb.” His boot scuffs against the floor again. “I _really_ like you, Hermann.”

“It’s not dumb,” Hermann tells him gently. “Not at all.”

He reaches up and covers one of Newton’s hands. The same shy little grin from earlier reappears on Newton’s face, and he ducks his head. “God, you’re being so _nice_ tonight,” he says. “It’s weird as shit.”

Hermann squeezes Newton’s hand. “Would you rather me be mean?”

“I can’t decide,” Newton says, and huffs out a little laugh. “You know, no one’s ever brought me flowers on a date before? You’re the first.”

Hermann feels another small pang of sadness on Newton’s behalf. Unable to help himself, and feeling _very_ strongly about the amount of flowers he’s going to purchase for Newton in the future, he tilts Newton’s chin up and kisses him, firmly, on the lips; Newton melts against him with a hum. His eyes are soft and half-lidded behind his glasses when he gazes up at Hermann, and he plucks at Hermann’s lapels again.

“Offer still stands,” he murmurs, and jerks his head back towards his door. “If you wanna come in.”

It takes Hermann a great deal of effort to shake his head. “Perhaps next time.”

Newton lights up. “There’s going to be a next time?” he says, and Hermann cuts in quickly, “Only if you’d like.”

“ _Yes_ ,” Newton says. “Of fucking course.”

He reels Hermann down for another kiss, though, in his excitement, misses Hermann’s lips entirely and mashes his own somewhere to the right of them. It’s nice nonetheless; Hermann’s disappointed when it comes to an end and Newton pulls away, when he’s no longer a warm, solid weight up against Hermann’s chest, no longer tugging clumsily at his blazer. He’s kissed Newton more times in the past few hours than he imagined he’d ever in his entire lifetime. How strange. He could get used to it. He'd like to get used to it, actually.

“See you at work tomorrow,” Newton says. His glasses are askew. His grin has only gotten wider.

“Ah,” Hermann says, and, dazedly, adjusts Newton’s glasses for him, “yes, work tomorrow.” He swallows. “Goodnight, Newton.”

“‘Night,” Newton says. He ducks inside his quarters with a wave.

Next time.

**Author's Note:**

> woo! busy week but i'm back. find me (as usual) on tumblr at hermannsthumb, twitter at hermanngaylieb!


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